


Rage, Rage, and All That Crap

by nwhepcat



Series: Portland 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Dean begins to lose something he can't get back, he longs to regain another irreplaceable part of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 7.02, then the story goes AU and leaps forward months at a time.

He went over and over it in his head, but Dean couldn't sort out which happened first: Sam's cry of _Dean!_ or the ghost that blindsided him, its rage making it corporeal enough to body slam Dean into the edge of old man Hrbek's open grave. He pinballed off the ledge and fell onto rotting wood and bone, all soaked in gasoline.

"Dean!" Sam blew out the match he'd been holding, which burned a series of afterimages of itself across Dean's vision. Dean heard rather than saw the impact of something slamming into Sam as well.

Sam was more prepared, obviously, because he didn't tumble into the grave beside Dean. Kicking a toe-hold into the earthen grave wall, Dean hauled himself out of the pit, a bruised or broken rib making him hiss and curse. Before he could catch his own breath, he heard the whistle of Sam's as he tried to fight the thing strangling him.

Dean frantically scrambled around the foot of the grave, feeling in the grass for the box of matches Sam surely dropped. After a moment he found it, scratched three along the striker and let them fall into the pit, scuttling away from the edge as the flames roar up.

"Sammy? You okay?"

"Yeah yeah," he said, though his raspy voice told Dean Sam was glossing over some of the truth. "You?"

"Might've cracked a rib."

"Not to mention you reek of gasoline."

Though filling in the grave took some time, Dean's eyes still hadn't readjusted to the dark after the blaze. He stumbled over a low gravestone (a lamb -- Dean hated the lambs, which always meant dead kids, even though they were usually close to a century gone). Sam reached out to steady him, murmuring a soft, "Careful."

Back at the car, Dean peeled out of his gasoline-soaked outer layers and pulled on sweatpants and tee. They'd toss the clothes in a Dumpster somewhere quiet before they got back to their motel, but Dean still needed a shower. The gasoline smell still clinging to him made his head ache.

"What happened back there?" Sam asked as they pulled away from the corner store where they'd tossed the clothes.

"Just say it," Dean snapped. Dad would have: _Where was your fucking head back there?_ or _Goddammit, Dean, get your head in the game._

"Say _what_?" Sam asked.

"I fucked up, that's what. We could've both wound up a lot worse than we did."

"There was no hidden message there, Dean. I was asking what happened because, y'know, it seemed like something happened."

"The friggin' dark happened. It was dark. I didn't see it until I was sailing through the air."

Sam looked vaguely surprised at this comment, obvious as it was, but Dean was tired of the subject and disiclined to pursue it further. But later, after Dean showered off the gasoline stink and Sam tended to his ribs, Dean played it over and over in his head. The ghost, the shout, the impact. _Or had it been the shout, the ghost, the impact?_

The internal tape loop gives him a worse headache than the gasoline.

***

Less than a month later, the earth shifted and crumbled beneath Dean's feet. It began with something that would normally be completely unremarkable: an argument between him and Sam.

The argument was one of those long fuse fights, starting innocently enough an hour before it blew. They were on two-lane blacktop through rolling dairy land in southwestern Wisconsin. The day was beautiful and crisp, but the driving was more treacherous thanks to the late afternoon sunlight. It shone directly in Dean's eyes more often than not, and the pools of shadow it created were dark as the mouth of a cave, unknowable until you were already inside.

"Why don't we grab something to eat in the next town?" Sam suggested.

"Sure. What are you in the mood for?"

Sam huffed a laugh. "Considering the size of these towns, maybe we should see what's there before we work up a mood."

"Good thinking."

The next town was barely more than a crossroads with a couple of bars and a gas station, but Sam still caught a little of the locals' attitude when one corrected his pronunciation of its name. Gratiot translated to _Gra-shit_ , go figure.

"Sounds a sneeze," Dean muttered to Sam, pitching it so the gal in the gas station couldn't fail to hear. "No, actually it sounds like an unfortunate side effect of a sneeze." Payback for dissing his brother.

There turned out to be a restaurant too, so they had an honest-to-god sit-down dinner. While they were waiting for the check, Sam said, "They've got guest rooms here, too. Why don't we just pack it in for the night?"

"It's not late," Dean said. "It's not even full dark."

"I know, but we've already lost our momentum for the day."

"What the hell do you mean?" Dean scraped his fork along his pie plate, hoping to catch a remaining smear of pie filling. "We stop for dinner and then get back on the road all the time."

"When there's somewhere we have to be," Sam said. "But tonight we don't." There was something Sam wasn't saying, though. He had that _look_. Gestating. The thought made him smirk.

"There is somewhere we've gotta be," Dean said.

"Where?" Sam demanded.

"Somewhere other than here, alright?" Which happened to come out of his mouth at the exact moment the waitress arrived with the check. His _thanks, darlin'_ and smile got him only a scowl in return.

Dean paid their bill and they moved their dispute to the sidewalk.

"Look, my back hurts," Sam said. "I'd just like to take it easy tonight." But his expression was soured, as if he'd been forced to swallow a jar of pickle juice or a bad compromise.

"I know how you carry yourself when your back hurts," Dean pointed out, "so it's not that."

Sam scuffed his heels to a stop on the sidewalk beside the Impala. His face took on that twitchy look it got whenever Sam was deciding between opening his mouth and keeping the peace. In years past, Dean always saw it just before an epic battle between Sam and Dad.

He didn't disappoint this time, either. Dean had circled to the driver's side and opened the door when Sam finally found his voice. "I don't want to ride with you after dark."

 _That_ , however, was unexpected. " _What?_ "

From the look on his face, Dean would've thought it was Sam who'd had a sentence like that thrown in his face. "Your driving, Dean. It's -- sort of scary."

"'Scary,'" Dean echoed.

"Well yeah."

Dean braced a hand on the roof of the Impala. "I've been hauling your ass around in this car for almost a decade. You read, you sleep, you eat -- nothing bothers you."

"Exactly. I mean, that's how it was. So I can't help but notice how much that's changed."

"Why don't you tell me just how I'm being scary?"

"Your driving's erratic. You overdrive the headlights. I can _see_ you flinching at the light when there's an oncoming car, and afterward, I don't think you can find the road. Pretty soon it's going to be rutting season and the bucks are going to be crazy stupid, and the way your reflexes are, it scares me shitless."

Sam's burst of speech so stunned Dean that he just stood there, hand splayed on the the skin of the Impala. He had an absurd impulse to ask her, _Is that true? Am I a shit driver?_ Sam didn't trust him behind the wheel of a car. It was no different from saying he didn't trust Dean with a gun in his hand.

"Look," Sam said, "I didn't mean to get into this out here. Let's stop for the night."

"No, let's keep going." Dean tossed the keys over the roof of the Impala, leaving his startled brother to make a graceless catch with both hands against his chest.

"Dean--"

"Let's go." He needed the feel of the Impala rumbling around him, needed the reassurance of forward motion.

Dean could see -- as he always could -- an argument brewing in Sam's head like a storm, but this time it moved along without dropping its load. The two of them let the silence stretch out between them, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.

It _was_ no different from Sam saying he didn't trust Dean with a gun in his hand -- not in the dark, anyway. Because at least 80 percent of their job required tramping around in the dark, and if Sam was having doubts about Dean's night vision --

Dean's stomach dropped as he realized that of course Sam would doubt him -- that time at old man Hrbek's grave, when Sam had called out to warn him and Dean had still been blindsided.

Sam had seen the ghost, simple as that. Dean hadn't.

If he was having difficulty driving after dark, he was sure as hell in trouble if he hunted at night.

Fuck that. He was fine. Would be fine. They'd see an eye guy and he might get some glasses, and things would get back to normal.

***

In the Winchester world, normal got its ass kicked and its teeth knocked in for good measure, and this was no exception.

Dean walked out of the specialist's office with pupils the size of dinner plates and a disposable pair of Yoko Ono wraparounds, but the sun still made him wince when he and Sam hit the street.

"So," Sam said, "drugstore and then back to the motel?"

"Liquor store first," Dean said.

"Dream on," Sam said. "Once you're pounding the Vitamin A like he said, you'll be putting enough strain on your liver."

"I knew you'd say that," he muttered.

"Well, the doctor did just give you a talk about that, so give me some credit."

Dean had given him plenty of credit, asking him into the consulting room to take notes as the retina guy gave them the news. Sure, Dean knew Latin, but it was all church Latin; Sam knew some legal Latin as well, so he'd retain more of the medical stuff. There was a lot of that, but some others that seemed ridiculous in their midst, like _rods_ and _cones_. It totally figured that Dean would wind up with a disease that boiled down to words of one syllable. Oh, it had its Latin name, and its support group friendly initials, but it boiled down to something was killing off the rods in his eyes, and his night vision was fucked. There was no cure for it, though he could bomb his liver with Vitamin A and slow down the progression. But eventually the cones would be as fucked as the rods, and he'd be some flavor of blind. Not all the way to nothing but black _(like waking up in your coffin)_ , but there'd be no more driving night _or_ day, and hunting would be -- hell, it already was -- out of the question.

"How are you doing?" Sam asked as he pulled the Impala out of the pharmacy parking lot.

"Dude, seriously. Do you _remember_ who you're with? I don't do touchy-feely."

"I meant your eyes. If I didn't know where you'd just been, I might've stabbed you with the demon knife by now."

Dean knew it was bullshit, that Sam _had_ been going for an emo moment, but he played along. "My head aches."

"We'll order a pizza, or I'll go get some takeout. It'll get better when you're out of the sunlight."

"Didn't think it would end like this," Dean said, surprising himself.

He obviously surprised Sam, too, though Sam had asked the question. "What?"

"Hunting. I didn't think how this was how it would end."

Dean heard Sam's huff of air and imagined the nostril-flare that accompanied it.

"Who said it's ended? You've got good daytime vision; there's nothing to stop you from talking to witnesses and doing research. You can drive during the day, when the weather's good."

 _For now._ "Right. I can do everything but the -- important part." Dean had almost said _the fun part_ , but when that translated as _killing shit_ , it made a guy sound psychotic. Even to his brother.

"All of it's important, Dean. We couldn't do the killing without the legwork, and you know that as well as I do."

"Whatever," Dean said, because that was the snappiest thing he could come up with.

Sam eased the Impala into the space by their motel room door, and Dean was out of the car before Sam even cut the engine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dean begins to lose something he can't get back, he longs to regain another irreplaceable part of himself.

This was the part Dean hated most about their new world order -- which now wasn't even all that new. Waiting in some dingy motel room for Sam to get back from a hunt. Wondering if he'd come back battered and bloody, or if this was the time he wouldn't come back at all. This was the time he got twitchy and wished he had a drink in his hand. 

It felt like a shitty bargain, giving up booze for a chance at a few more years of sight when he was already unfit for the one thing he was meant to do. (And "give up the booze" was as drastic an oversimplification as "kill that motherfucker" usually was, but he was doing it. One fucking day at a fucking time.) There was nothing he could do except wait and fear this last unbearable loss in a long string of them: Mom, Dad, Ellen, Jo, Cas --

Dean had worn a path in the floor and gone around the TV dial at least fourteen times by the time he heard a thump and pawing at the door. Grabbing his Glock from the nightstand, he moved to stand beside the door. 

Another pawing, accompanied by: "It's me, Dean."

Hurriedly Dean tucked the gun away at his spine and yanked open the door, only to get an armful of Sam. He was half covered in slime and the other half in blood, the back of his jacket shredded, and he stank like three-day-old death. 

"Got it," Sam mumbled, as if that was the most important thing.

Lowering him onto the garish bedspread of Dean's own bed, he asked, "Where did it get you? Just your back?"

"Yeah."

Carefully he eased Sam's jacket off, then his flannel shirt, then he flicked open his pocket knife to cut Sam's t-shirt away. Dean held his breath until he saw no darkly glistening organs pulsing beneath the six claw marks that slashed from the lower tip of Sam's left shoulder blade to his right hip. 

"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered. "i think I need a Handy Stitch."

A groan was Sam's only response.

"Man, we've got to get you cleaned up first."

After a struggle and multiple hisses and curses from Sam, he was sprawled face down on his own clean bed as Dean tore open a suture kit. Dean had pulled the lampshade off the bedside light, but it was still pretty damn dim for this kind of work.

"You're gonna look like the Chicago railyards when this is done," Dean said two claw marks in. "Sorry.

"Adds character," Sam said into the space behind his folded arms. "Otherwise I'm too damn pretty."

"Dude. Don't make me laugh."

When he was three-quarters done with the last gash, Dean paused to rub his forehead above the bridge of his nose. "I can't do this anymore."

"How much further do you have to go?"

"That's not what I meant." He took the needle up again. "I mean the whole thing. Hunting. Or whatever it is I'm doing while you're hunting."

"Dean--"

"Don't tell me how indispensible I am. I don't want to fucking hear it." Dean continued working until he'd put in the last stitch, then managed to bandage up the whole mess. He took up the bottle of Vicodin he'd used to dose up Sam and took two himself, then put the shade back on the lamp, tilting it to cast most of the room in shadow. His head throbbing, he stripped off the filthy bedspread on his own bed and fell onto the threadbare sheets. 

In the morning, they tucked into the diner breakfast Dean had brought back to the room, Sam straddling his chair to keep his stitches out of harm's way. 

"Did you mean what you said last night?" Sam asked through a mouthful of Greek omelet. 

"I'm surprised you remember anything I said last night."

Sam just eyed him, waiting. 

"Yeah, I meant it. I can't do something that's that close to hunting without actually hunting. Especially if it's you out there doing the dangerous part."

Sam chewed a while, absorbing this. "Have you thought about what you'll do instead?"

He'd had hours to think of it, lying awake the night before. And on some level he'd been working on this question throughout the months since his diagnosis. Nodding, he said, "I want to settle down. Open a business."

"What sort of thing are you thinking of?"

"What's the one thing every hunter needs?"

"Psychotherapy."

"Oh, you're funny, Sam."

"I'm not kidding." He washed down a mouthful of home fries with a swig of orange juice. "Everyone who gets into this life has lived through something horrific. And those who were born to it have plenty of issues too. Think of the times we could've used someone to help us work things through who wouldn't automatically assume we're head cases."

"We are head cases. Last thing anyone would want is a therapist crazier than them."

"What, then?"

"What's one thing I can do with my eyes closed?"

"You want to open a sperm bank?"

"Oh, you're a real card, Andy. Why don't you go over to the old folks' home and wax the steps? I can field strip pretty much any gun blindfolded. I thought I'd take up gunsmithing."

It took Sam a moment to lose his smirk, then he asked, "Where are you thinking you'll settle?"

"Portland."

"Portland?"

"Portland."

"Maine or Oregon?"

"Oregon."

Sam wrinkled his brow. "Why there? Don't you want to be somewhere more central so you get more business? Or move closer to Bobby?"

"Portland's got bike trails out the ass. They've got mass transit. Either way I'll be able to get around if things get bad enough I can't drive in the day. And I won't have to worry about sun glare most of the time."

After he'd mulled this over a while, Sam said, "But is a place like that going to be that fertile for a gunsmith? It seems a little, well, crunchy granola, to use a phrase I've heard come out of your mouth."

"A hunter who'll drive across three states to gank a ghost will go to Portland to get his favorite gun fixed. I know I would. Especially if it's the sort of gun they can't exactly take to the gun shop downtown."

"Okay, but what --"

Dean overrode him. "You do realize you're not the actual devil's advocate anymore."

He knew in an instant he'd jammed his foot so far into his mouth that his shit was going to come out with Vibram sole treadmarks on it.

"Fuck, I'm sorry Sam. That's was out of line."

Sam shrugged. "You're right. It's your plan, I should shut up and let you plan it." 

The undercurrent was plain enough, though. If Dean didn't think of every single factor and something went wrong, it was tough tits.

***

It surprised Dean that it took so long for Sam to figure out the real reason he'd chosen Portland. They had set up base camp in a motel, and Dean had begun circling real estate ads for business and residential spaces, and a few likely sounding combination properties.

"I don't get it," he said. "Why are you limiting your search to one area?"

"I like it. It has a good feel."

"A 'good feel'?" Sam echoed. "Man, I don't even know you."

"Oh, get bent," Dean said without heat.

"Seriously, Dean, we've done one drive around town, and we didn't even get to all the potential neighborhoods." 

"We don't need to get to all of them if I find something I like in this one."

Shaking his head, Sam gave up at this point, but a day later Dean let himself into the room bearing a bag of Chinese takeout, only to be greeted by Sam flapping a sheaf of papers in Dean's face. 

"Jesus, Dean. Jesus. You wanted to move here because Lisa lives here?"

Dean pulled the papers away from him. "Why the fuck are you rummaging around in my research, anyway?"

"What are you thinking? What the hell are you planning to do -- walk up to her and say, 'You don't remember me, but I saved you and your kid from monsters back in Indiana'?"

"Don't be stupid, Sam."

"What, then? You're going to stalk her?"

"No. Dammit, Sammy, you were the one who was so pissed off about me cutting myself out of Lisa's life that way. Now you're pissed that I want to try to start fresh with her?"

"It's creepy. Arranging an accidental meeting and then pretending you never met her before."

"Since that's not what's going to happen, you shouldn't have a problem."

"Then what?" Sam demanded.

"I'm going to get my life started and hope that at some point it intersects with hers and Ben's."

"Dean, I'm telling you, this--"

Dean cut in. "You remember the conversation we had after I visited Lisa in the hospital?"

"The one about you breaking my face?"

"That one, yeah. Consider that warning back in effect." Snatching up his jacket, he said, "I'm going for a walk. Save me the fucking sesame noodles -- all of them."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dean begins to lose something he can't get back, he longs to regain another irreplaceable part of himself.

He saw Ben before he ever crossed paths with Lisa.

Dean was waiting in the checkout line at Trader Joe's, in a foul mood because he'd forgotten his reading glasses and the ingredients lists were a bitch to read, and now his head was hurting. He was just about to the point where the next cashier who clanged a big brass bell was going to have his spleen torn out.

Normally Dean liked the reliably friendly cashiers at TJs, who made him feel like he was more established in the neighborhood than he really was. Today, though, he wished the kid at his register would knock off the chitchat with the woman ahead of him. When the two of them finally made their teary goodbyes, Dean pushed his into its little dock and the kid greeted him with a smile and a "Hey, how's it going?"

 _Ben._ Dean was certain of it even before he checked the kid's nametag.

God. He was sure of it, even though the kid was almost as tall as Sam and the last trace of baby fat was gone from his face and rangy body. His dark hair was slightly shaggy, curling a little at the collar of his Hawaiian shirt.

Realizing he'd left an awkward pause, Dean stammered, "Good, good. I'm thinking I needed a little more coffee this morning." Because what else was he going to say -- _Remember the guy who caused that car accident you only remember very fuzzily?_

The kid -- Ben -- laughed. "I feel your pain. I've been studying for finals. The library last night was like _Night of the Living Dead_."

Weird to hear him talking about supernatural shit like any other clueless civilian. Weirder still to realize he was actually college age.

Dean chuckled like he had the slightest idea what studying for finals was like. "What are you majoring in?"

"Criminal justice."

He felt a little thrill of pride at this. "Going into law enforcement?" At Ben's nod, he said, "I was on the job myself." He'd told this lie any number of times back when he was a hunter, but now that he was saying it in the past tense, it seemed like he should follow it up with something. An explanation of why he'd gotten out, maybe, but that was nothing he wanted to go into, even fictionally. Instead, he added, somewhat lamely, "Back in Indiana."

"Hey, no kidding. I lived there until I was about twelve. Just a ways north of Carmel."

 _He'd been right. It was Ben._ Dean realized he was white-knuckling the edge of the counter, but he couldn't make himself let go.

Ben, unaware, kept ringing up Dean's purchases. Dean handed over his cash when Ben gave him the total, picked up his bags and walked out of the store.

The encounter had gone exactly the way he'd envisioned it, though he'd always thought it was Lisa he'd run into. Brief, casual, a pleasant but meaningless exchange, at least to one party.

But Dean hadn't realized how fucking hard on him it would be.

***

It made Dean feel like a chickenshit, but he laid low for a while after that, spending less time out in the neighborhood. He had plenty to keep him occupied anyway. Once he'd gotten his apartment into a habitable state, which he'd mostly accomplished by the time he'd run into Ben, he started on setting up his shop downstairs.

Signing a lease had felt probably as nerve-wracking for him as a 30-year mortgage was for people with normal lives. Bobby worked overtime producing enough paperwork for Dean and Sam that he could open his own witness protection program.

Dean kept himself busy enough that he didn't miss Sam -- at least that's what he told himself. There were DIY projects out the ass in the shop and apartment, online gunsmithing classes and smutty Western paperbacks in a series called _The Gunsmith_ , which he'd discovered by accident while on a search for supplies.

By the time Dean emerged from his self-imposed exile, he'd forgotten his wariness of neighborhood encounters. He spent a few days craphounding at thriftshops in the city, scrounging some of the furniture items he'd considered non-essential before, like a kitchen table and living room chairs that weren't beaten-up frames upholstered with thick foam and blankets.

Dean was on his last stop of the day, focused on finding something more for Sam's room. He'd been on a mission the last few days, determined that when Sam came it would not be a bare, impersonal space that could in any way remind him of Bobby's old panic room. Earlier in the week he'd scored a big wooden sleigh bed -- a ridiculous extravagance, really, but it was as far from the narrow metal cot as he could get -- and a book case. It was ludicrously small for Sam's enormous appetite for books, but it was the intent. Dean had arranged his growing collection of _Gunsmith_ paperbacks on the top shelf as a joke.

Today he'd found a large rug in greens and blues with a pattern that made him think of ocean waves, pretty much as far as you could get from hellfire. Dean wanted something for the walls that had some of the same colors and the same -- well, _feeling_ as the rug, as lame as that sounded. This place, just around the corner from Dean's, tended to have a big selection of art -- from mass produced sofa-sized nature crap to your standard evil clowns and paint-by-number masterpieces, but some of them were actually good.

Dean crouched by a leaning stack of pictures, flipping through them like he sometimes did the old vinyl albums at the back of the store, even though he had nothing to play them on. Toward the back of the second stack, he came on a canvas that made him pause. It wasn't a picture of anything, just streaks and patches of color, but he liked it. Blues and greens again, with little shimmers of gold and orange. It was like a view from underwater.

"I like it," said a congested female voice behind him. Great. He'd been hearing sneezes and snuffles from various areas of the store, and now she'd come to breathe on him.

Dean shifted to look at her, but the light in the ceiling was directly behind her, hurting his eyes and letting him see only a dark shape. It was a nice shape, that much he could tell. "Sorry, am I blocking your way?"

"No, I was just peeking over your shoulder at the pictures. That one's really nice."

Rising to his feet, canvas in his hand in case she had any ideas, Dean suddenly found himself face-to-face with Lisa. Scarf-wrapped, nose red and chapped, but still Lisa and still gorgeous.

Dean couldn't imagine what his own face was doing. It felt like he was giving his best imitation of a goldfish staring out of a fishbowl, mouth working soundlessly.

At least Lisa had her own look of startled confusion. "Do I know you --"

When Dean's mouth finally joined the party, it didn't stop to invite the brain along. "Lisa."

"-- from somewhere?" she said simultaneously. "I guess I do."

"Car accident," he stammered.

"Oh, sure, sure. You came by to see how Ben and I were. I didn't think to ask if you were okay." She swiped a ragged-looking Kleenex under her nose.

Waving a dismissive hand, Dean said, "It was a long time ago. Nothing that didn't heal up and hair over in two days' time." Right. Just a crushed heart and compound guilt complex.

"This is about the last place I thought I'd run into you."

"Oh. Well. I was just looking for something for my brother's room." That sounded lame. Like they still lived with their mom and dad. "The guest room, I mean. He'll just be the first to use it."

"Oh, I just meant in Portland. So you just moved here?"

"A while back. But I've been focusing on other things. Sam's visiting in a week, though, so I'm back to getting the place set up. My brother's been up to his eyeballs in stress with grad school, so I wanted to get something peaceful to hang on the walls."

"Let's see that again."

Dean raised the canvas at exactly the moment Lisa uncorked a huge sneeze, spraying a few droplets of spit on it.

"Oh god! I'm so so sorry!" Pulling her sweater sleeve over her hand, she wiped at the surface of the painting as Dean held it steady.

"Jeez, lady," he said, "I know you were eyeing this, but I'm not giving it up _that_ easily."

"No, seriously!" Her protest ran out of steam when she saw that he was stifling laughter. "That is the single most mortifying thing I've ever done. Jesus." She wiped carefully at another droplet.

Dean lost all control at this point, laughing until he staggered back and bumped against a shelf unit and knocked a knickknack onto the hardwood floor.

"Crap!" Lisa yelped, but the word was swallowed by her own snorts and giggles, which triggered what Sam liked to call the Mirth Feedback Loop. ( _Mirth. Who the fuck but Sammy even uses that word?_ )

They were still feeding off each other, Lisa barking coughs as much as laughing, as the shopkeeper approached.

She was about Lisa's age, a little on the hippie side with a breastplate of piled-on necklaces, including the obligatory turquoise squash blossom. "Am I going to have to throw you two out?"

"I'm sorry," Dean promptly offered, as straight-faced as he could. "It's my fault. I'll pay for these and go."

Lisa put a hand on his arm, and the light touch drives all the laughter from him. "No, she's joking." She was still fighting her hilarity, squeezing her voice like a pothead talking past a lungful of smoke. "This is Allison. She's my college BFF." She hacked two small coughs. "Oh, god, I'm sorry. I don't remember your name."

"It's Dean."

"Well, let's see the damage," Allison said, thogh her light tone indicated no real concern. "Ooh, it's the soul-eating bunny! You win a prize for killing the ugliest thing in the store."

"Tell him what he's won, Allison," Lisa said in game-show host tones.

Allison the game show riff going. "Dean, you've won a fabulous hand-painted canvas, artist unknown. Retail value, five dollars."

"Hey, no, that's--" Dean protested.

"But wait," Lisa said, still in game show mode. "This is a DNA-enhanced artwork, infused via a special organic process generating speeds of 100 mph, making this particular work priceless."

Reaching for his wallet, Dean said, "This is nuts. I'll pay for this and the evil bunny."

Allison put a hand on his arm to stop him. "Seriously. This is on me. I haven't heard Lisa laugh like this in forever. It's worth $8 -- you can't even see a crappy movie for that anymore."

Lisa flushed to her hairline. "Allison, Jeez."

Dean could feel his own face reddening, but it was the sudden blossoming of hope in his heart that made him cover by saying, "I'm not leaving without buying something. I know exactly what, too." He went back to the first stack of artworks he'd looked through and found the hideous and disturbing clown painting he'd paused over earlier. "I'm gonna hang this on the inside of my brother's closet so I can hear him scream like a girl."

"Is this the same brother you wanted the nice serene picture for?" Lisa asked.

Quirking a grin, he said, "He's studying to be a shrink. He'll get over it."

Dean helped Allison sweep up the bunny remains while Lisa honked copiously into an unknown number of tissues. Once both those things were done and hand sanitizer was passed around, they stood around and talked for a long while in different configurations: Lisa and Dean; Lisa, Dean and Allison; the three of them with a random customer or two. For the first time he felt he _was_ becoming part of the neighborhood. People on the block, he discovered, had noticed the new business setting up down the street and were curious. Nobody seemed eager to run him out of Portland on a rail because he was a gunsmith -- it probably didn't hurt that he emphasized the reconditioning of antique weapons, rental of authentic non-firing guns for costume dramas and sales of hand-made ammo to reenactors and creative anachronism freaks (all Sam's ideas).

The chat hadn't even started to wind down when Dean decided he'd better get himself home, so he paid for the clown painting and took it and the other one, heading for the door. " _Shit,_ " he muttered.

"Did the rain start up again?" Lisa asked.

"No, it's dark." Here was the point where he sounded completely pathetic -- _No, I'm not allowed out after dark._ \-- but hell, Lisa had sneezed on his painting and survived the embarrassment. He could at least take this with as much grace as she had. Dean went for the truth. "I've got a thing. My night vision is shot to shit, so I don't drive at night anymore." That sounded amazingly matter-of-fact. "I usually walk after dark, but I've got a carload of stuff I bought today."

"No problem," Lisa said without hesitation. "I can drive you there. You live close to your shop?"

"Right above."

"Cool. I'll just grab my coat and bag." She ducked behind the counter where Allison was taking a phone call. As Lisa indicated what was up with a series of gestures, Allison flicked a look toward him, then grinned at Lisa and made the "call me" sign with thumb and pinkie.

Hot damn, Dean had met Lisa _and_ gotten the BFF seal of approval on the same day. He waited for lightning to strike him dead, just to keep the universe in balance.

" _That's_ your car?" she asked when they stood on the sidewalk.

"You don't approve?" Almost as bad as a lightning strike.

"It's not that, it's just ... BIG. I'm afraid I'll leave paint stripes on cars on both sides of the street."

"She's easier to drive than you think." And Lisa was a good driver, but he couldn't admit to the knowledge. Unlocking the car, he stowed his paintings on the back seat, then handed over the keys.

"She?" Lisa asked. "Should I get an introduction first?" At Dean's puzzled look, she added, "What's her name?"

Giving her a grin, he said, "The Impala."

"Hey," she said abruptly, and Dean's heart stuttered in sudden anxiety.

"What?"

"I just remembered. I never got any bills from that accident, or any paperwork from your insurance or anything. It was like it never happened."

Dean felt himself redden to the roots of his hair. "Well, it was my fault."

"Even so, I'd have thought your insurance company would have made me sign something at least."

"Oh. Well, I was working for a pretty high-powered organization at the time. They took care of the whole thing."

"Wow."

Dean wished he could read her expression better, but the light and shadows falling across her face made her a mystery.

"Well. Thanks. It sure lowered the stress levels to have life go on without a second thought."

Grief welled up in him at that, so sudden and overpowering it was almost a physical pain. "Well, it was the least we could do."

"What made you leave that job?" Lisa asked once they'd settled into the front seat. "If I'm not being too nosy."

He'd thought he didn't have room for more grief, but sorrow for Castiel crashed over him like a second wave on the beach. "The guy I worked with started thinking he was God," he said.

"Oh, I know how that feels," she said, and Dean thought, no, you really don't.

"Starting up a business has its challenges. I've worked for myself in the past, though not right now. But Allison and I would be happy to help you navigate the waters around here, and we know some good people to talk to. Just say the word."

"Thanks." Because he realized he should, he asked, "What is it you do?"

"I teach yoga at a holistic wellness center." She pulled up in front of Dean's home and cut the engine. "And there you are. Can I help you carry your stuff inside? That carpet's going to be a pain to carry solo."

It meant a few minutes more to spend with Lisa, so he readily accepted, despite the fact that anyone who could tote Sam Winchester in a fireman's carry wouldn't have a problem with a rolled-up carpet.

Once they got the carpet stashed in Sam's room, Lisa said, "I'd better get back. Allison and I have dinner plans after she closes the shop."

"Thanks a lot for the ride," Dean said, suddenly feeling -- well, he guessed this was what shy felt like.

"Glad to do it," she said, and fumbled in her purse. Producing a business card and a pen, she scrawled a number on the back and held the card out to him. "Here. It's my cell number. If you need to be somewhere at night, I'd be glad to drive."

"That's really good of you," Dean said. "And yeah, I think I might need that soon. This is kind of awkward, but I'm planning to ask a woman out."

"Oh." Her face was carefully impassive as she said, "Well, when would that be?"

"When are you free?" he asked.

"Shouldn't you ask her first?" He watched the realization dawn on her. "Oh. You are asking, aren't you?" She gave him a mock scowl. "No fair. Having this much snot in my head makes me stupid."

Dean laughed maybe harder than was warranted, but he'd heard her say the exact same thing in that year that she no longer remembered. And call him weird, but it seemed like a good sign when a woman was comfortable enough to say _snot_ on first meeting.

They didn't kiss when she left, but they had a date for the next night. The kiss could wait.


End file.
